


Invitation to a seduction

by Melanie_D_Peony



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Ficlet, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Short & Sweet, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22735012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_D_Peony/pseuds/Melanie_D_Peony
Summary: YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.Aziraphale contemplated the note he'd written before proceeding to miracle it on Crowley's bedside table where the demon would surely find it when he next decides to sulk himself into a restless sleep.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	Invitation to a seduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fan fiction. The author does not own any of these characters.

_YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in._

Aziraphale contemplated the note he'd written before proceeding to miracle it on Crowley's bedside table where the demon would surely find it when he next decides to sulk himself into a restless sleep. 

It was as blatantly obvious as one can get.

The things is, he tried the subtle approach many times over, fearing that the local menace and personified bundle of nerves, going by the name Anthony J Crowley, will retreat all the way to Alpha Centauri if he came across too strong.

This is how that usually panned out.

6000 years ago he extended a wing over the demon on the wall and while Crowley accepted the shelter, he remained blissfully ignorant of its implications.

In Rome he tempted the demon to oysters, a meal widely regarded as an aphrodisiac. He was rewarded with a bemused smile and a snarky remark about aardvarks. 

In Elizabethan London he fawned over the demon indulging his wish to have Hamlet become a sensation. Crowley complained about Shakespeare's gloomier plays and disappeared before Aziraphale had a chance to provide sweet reward for his efforts. 

When he played the "damsel in distress" card in Paris and the goddamned pragmatic demon simply forced him to discard his carefully selected outfit.

Emboldened by the chocolate Crowley brought him in 1859, Aziraphale sent a meaningful bouquet of red roses and chrysanthemums in return. The demon proved illiterate in flower language but unwittingly informed Aziraphale about the garden he'd cultivated when he came around to bully the angel into swearing secrecy over his botanical project he thought the flowers were intended for.

He really thought that Crowley will address the elephant in the room during the lunch he'd invited Aziraphale to, eleven years prior to the Apocalypse, and finally name this emotion between them, affecting the angel like a chest spreader, leaving him with an aching thorax and a heart feeling tender and exposed. Instead Crowley decided to get sloshed and went on about gorillas, dolphins and bloody birds chipping away mountains as means of convincing Aziraphale. 

He imagined he'd finally made himself understood when he invited Crowley on all those dates, poorly disguised as meetings to "compare notes" about the growing Antichrist. They already lived and worked on the same estate, they hardly needed clandestine rendezvous in little restaurants, during West End shows and in museum cafes if they wanted to chat - as the painfully thick demon so helpfully pointed out once, stuck in a traffic jam of his own making. But he continued to stay oblivious to the significance of that morsel of truth. 

Finally, after having saved the world, Aziraphale toasted Crowley in the Ritz, expecting to be driven home and get well and thoroughly snogged by a demon still tasting of dessert and champagne. Instead he was left high and dry by Crowley who drove away after the most disappointingly proper and prudish farewell. 

So here he was, with his hedonistic hands, yearning to test the angle, the sharpness, the density of those dangerously good cheekbones, as empty as ever. His indulgent heart was beating a mad, dissatisfied tattoo. His head was swimming with worry that he may have misinterpreted the signs and this was the demon's means of rejecting him gently. 

Either way, there was nothing left to do, but to reveal his cards, hoping that his bet was a safe one, he decided as he sent the note flying on the wings of lovesick miracles.

* * *

  
  


The demon turned up on his doorstep twelve hours and fifty minutes later. He was rapping on the entrance with his fist tirelessly, seeming to have forgotten that business hours didn't apply to him and he could, miraculously, always come in the bookstore. When Aziraphale opened up, tutting, he found Crowley heaving, like he'd ran all the way from Mayfair, though the Bentley was sitting in his field of vision, left by the curb with such reckless nonchalance that simply couldn't be described as "parking".

'Is this,' panted the demon, smashing the note in the angel's chest as he pushed past him. 'your idea of a bloody joke?' 

He went ahead and threw himself on Aziraphale's sofa, entangling his abundance of limbs in a manner that spoke clearly of his sulk.

'And good afternoon to you too, dearest.' Aziraphale said, putting the door in with a long suffering sigh, following the demon where he was sitting, glowering behind his dark glasses.

'You know that I like it when you are a bit of a bastard, but this is too much.' Continued Crowley, ignoring his remark altogether. 

'Is it know?' Responded Aziraphale noncommittally, judging the demon too worked up for a proper conversation

'You can't just go around, toying with people's emotions.' Crowley threw his hands angrily in the air. 'I thought a being like you would understand that.' 

'Whose emotions would I be toying with in this case, mind?' Aziraphale asked, deliberately obtuse. 

'Aziraphale. Angel.' Crowley huffed, defeated, anger rapidly deflating. 'You know fully well how I feel about you.' 

'Yes, dear.' The angel admitted. 'And now you know how I feel about you too.'

Crowley sucked in a sharp intake of breath as if the ember in those words had scorched him and he didn't and he didn't take the blasted glasses off. 

'You said I was too fast for you.' The demon complained instead and fuck, of course he had to choose 1970 of all the years to realise the extent of the angel's feelings for him. It must be a Fallen thing, interpreting a loaded gun, aimed at his chest as devotion, taking the explosive essence of Aziraphale's divinity, bottled in a tartan thermos and deciding that it's that, right there, that counts as a confession. 

'It wasn't safe, Crowley.' The angel moaned, exasperated, in response. 'Your side was onto you, you were asking for insurance. I merely tried to be cautious.' 

He'd crafted careful new walls between them after. To protect the demon, in case Hell came a knocking on his door. To protect his heart if Crowley decided to… _opt out_.

'You also said you didn't like me.' 

'I did. And I'm sorry. We both said things at some points we'd regretted later. Unless you really have a lot of other people to fraternize with.' 

'You know I don't.' The demon said in a small voice.

'Very well. But there's still one question left.' 

The demon keened, a chain of nonsensical syllables escaping his throat as Aziraphale stepped to him, lifting his wrist between his soft, well manicured, wide hands. 

'Are these really the kind of clothes you wish to be seduced in?' His voice wasn't completely devoid of sarcasm and the demon chuckled nervously. 

'Not really.' Crowley responded. 'I'd prefer less layers, for one.'

'The Ritz has a dress code, you know.' The angel reminded him, frowning and, giddy with his new found freedom, the demon hooked his arms around his waist, pulling Aziraphale on his lap.

'Maybe we should skip the Ritz and move straight onto dessert.' He suggested with a devious smile before kissing the angel. 

And that's exactly what they ended up doing. 

  
  



End file.
